


you don't make a sound

by stillmadaboutpetra



Series: be the thing that buries me [2]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Bittersweet, Bottom Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Boys In Love, Character Study, Comrades in Arms, First Love, Gentle Sex, M/M, Porn with Feelings, Pre-Canon, Protective Eskel (The Witcher), Soft Eskel (The Witcher), Soft Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Tenderness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-16
Updated: 2020-08-16
Packaged: 2021-03-06 00:21:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25934323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stillmadaboutpetra/pseuds/stillmadaboutpetra
Summary: Like nearly every night, Geralt creeps from his room into Eskel’s.(can be read as stand alone)
Relationships: Eskel/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia
Series: be the thing that buries me [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1882180
Comments: 33
Kudos: 128





	you don't make a sound

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Fayet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fayet/gifts).



> establishing the soft parts of the series....more public love letters to fayet (but in the aloof german way)
> 
> set between geralt's first and second trial

Like nearly every night, Geralt creeps from his room into Eskel’s. Their doors don’t make a sound, oiled and sweating in the summer nights; the walls have swollen, the keep breathing in the doldrums of august. Far below, where they can see the glowing caps of distant trees, the sun lingers too long in low light, leaving behind the first bleaching of autumn’s touch, a shifting in the woods somewhere.

There’s already a layer of sweat on Geralt when he climbs into bed with Eskel, stripping out of his shirt and pants with practiced ease. Eskel hums himself awake at the weight of Geralt dipping in beside him, the slant of the world tipped towards that slow heart beat.

A kiss presses to his mouth in the dark, Geralt finding his way with lamplit eyes. Eskel pretends to snore, earning a huff and another pushy kiss, this time on his chin and winding in towards his throat, hunting instinct guiding Geralt by fang to sleep-soft veins and blue shadows.

“Can’t you tell I’m asleep here,” Eskel rumbles, rolling over onto his back, taking Geralt with him almost as an afterthought.

“Very articulate sleep-talker, if you are, Eskel.”

“Anything next to your snoring is articulate.”

Geralt plants his face next to Eskel’s on the pillow and rips out a bearish snore directly into his ear. Eskel jerks with the noise, jabbing Geralt in the kidney in reprimand. There’s a low hissing laugh.

“Can’t you be decent and civilized for once in your life?” Eskel hugs a hand around Geralt’s waist, fingers brushing the flex of obliques and quick-draw ribs catching on a tickled breath. They lie heavy and naked against each other; Geralt hipbones sink against his, slightly misaligned; their skeletonselves reach eagerly through the premature grave of their bodies, brighter and bleached, gambling bones. Geralt rolls them over, near to tumble from the bed, rolls them like dice.

Eskel lands on his feet, pushed from his own bed; Geralt rests along the edge, about to hit the floor as well, staring at him through the dark.

“Strike a light, Eskel.”

Rising from his crouch, Eskel obeys. Geralt huffs at the tiny sign he draws with a finger, but the candle gutters to life, flame whipping with the force that conjures it, flaring too bright and wide before the wick calms under the force of charring.

Shadow and light cut new into his small room, Eskel pushes aside the tapestry keeping the night gently asleep beyond the window, letting nectar’d darkness inside to join them in bed.

Geralt kicks away the thin cover, laying bare, sliced in fragments by light and dark; he’s touching himself, fingers tracing the divets of his muscles across his abdomen, lewd and lazy under his own hand. Still, though he is familiar, more familiar than anything on this earth, Eskel’s mouth runs dry at the sight of him only to grow wet with desire in the next instant, spellbound and boiling over with it. Geralt watches Eskel watch him - he stretches for Eskel, head pushed back into the pillow, feet craned with tension - he arches, striking his arms upwards, yawning hugely before he goes entirely lax. His gaze rests easy on Eskel, the glow of his eyes outed and renewed over and over, that internal luminousness of life blinking as gently as the last mating flares of fireflies. He's crawled from the earth.

“Did you want light just to see yourself?" Eskel runs a hand down Geralt’s chest - there’s magic under his fingers, chaos lightning quick and lingering - Geralt inhales, a sharp cut into the humid stillness of the bedroom. He whispers with his faintly plucked chord of magic; a spinal tether, all fluid and central and breakable. It rests dormant until Eskel strokes it to life.

“So you can see me.” He spreads his legs, bendings his knees. He entreats softly: “Eskel.”

Eskel falls between the offered space, sliding his hands over his kneecaps, down his thighs - bracing his weight down on the bed to kiss Geralt. He tastes of green, parsley and mint. The pucker of fruit jam stolen in the night. Eskel might find crusts of honeycomb in his teeth.

“You taste good.”

Geralt’s mouth falls open wider, sighing. “I stuck my fingers into every jar I found in the pantry.” He cannot resist a little trouble. He’s always convincing himself into his own dares.

Eskel kisses the admission from his lips. “Which was your favorite?” He licks deeper, finding the answer. “Cherry?”

He doesn’t answer, laying instead in submission for Eskel’s exploration. So Eskel wanders the rest of his curiosity across his face, sucking pinkness in patches until he’s planted color high in Geralt’s cheeks and across his royal brow.

“You think you’re too special to be whipped anymore.” Eskel cuts his teeth on Geralt’s collarbone. “Vesemir will see you humbled.”

The room swells with Geralt’s thoughts before they leave him like a dream once shared: “Will you humble me tonight, Eskel?”

Geralt’s heart thumps up to meet the kiss Eskel lays on his chest. It rises to his mouth as a fish to the pond, catching for a resting fly, glamoured by the ripple of tension, swallowing mouthfuls of sunlight.

“After you woke me up? You need humbled.”

But he’s all talk; humble? How can you humble what you worship? By loving it too hard? Geralt does not understand the word humble if he thinks Eskel could do it by touch; not with how his hands burn in rapture, bidden or not. With his words, his mouth? Eskel kisses him, trying “Geralt” out like the first taste of a reprimand and all he feels is a pilgrim’s passage in the sound of the name, ritual and ruin at once.

“I’ll try my best,” Eskel rumbles. The only thing that would humble Geralt would be if Eskel stopped loving him. What is a small god without his supplicant. A thing of figment.

“Promise it.” Geralt meets his mouth, whispering there, “Promise it.”

“I promise I’ll try.”

Geralt grunts, slitting his eyes before he drops back onto Eskel’s pillow with all the carelessness of someone who knows they’ll be well tended. Eskel’s spoiled him. He tangles his hands into Eskel’s hair, calloused and radiating the heat of too much sunshine.

Eskel kisses Geralt’s pale pink nipples to hardness, mouthing back and forth from one to the next, dragging his lips across the soft curls that have sprung up in only the past season. The First Trial had raised hair on Geralt where there hadn’t been much before; gave him a shadow on his jaw in a week’s time. Fool had spent years sneaking touches along Eskel’s chin, thinking of his own beard to come - now muttered about having to shave or risk looking scraggly and patchy to everyone’s amusement.

The sweetness of him, his early manhood - Eskel catches Geralt’s lips again, pressing down over him. He replaces his mouth with his fingers, pinching Geralt’s peaked nipple and feeling the reactive twitch in his cock that lay between them. Geralt purrs deliciously, hooking his leg over Eskel’s, rolling up.

“Eskel.” Geralt tosses his head to one side, bares his throat so Eskel, devoted, kisses there. Geralt shudders and turns his face once more, exposing the other side. “Eskel.” And so Eskel kisses there. And when Geralt offers his bobbing throat, the wet click of his mouth another lisping “Eskel,” he fits his unfanged mouth around Geralt’s throat to swallow him as Geralt swallows. Eskel would taste the world through him.

“Bite me, Eskel,” Geralt urges, wrapping a hand around Eskel’s cock between them, shifting to gather his and hold them together. Eskel pushes into his straining hand, sliding silkily against Geralt’s hot sex. “Kiss me, Eskel.”

Eskel fucks Geralt’s fist, cock drooling, Geralt’s breath hitching as he obeys.

“Don’t stop.”

“Demanding tonight,” Eskel huffs, sitting up with his arms under Geralt, turning them both over in bed. Geralt rolls with him, bracing his arms on either side of Eskel’s head and kissing him, hips moving of their own accord now; both of them have gained a rut, the creases of their hips and thighs sweating, slippery, their cocks both too hard to ignore anymore but still a background mindless urging, an itch they scratch with steady movement.

“You always give me what I want.”

“You ask for so little. It’s easy to give it.” Has he ever told Geralt no? If he has, he can’t remember. Geralt wouldn’t heed him; he’d cock his ear and listen and nod his head and then run off the opposite way, dragging Eskel behind him like their shadows had been tethered and it was either keep pace or fall stumbling after him. “You always ask me what I want to hear.” Geralt only fights him long enough to make his begging a blessed thing.

“Touch me?” Geralt offers. “Touch me here, Eskel,” and wraps Eskel’s hand around his cock for him, eyes burning with the candlelight. Eskel moans, choking on the sight and feel of him.

How can those mages seek to touch him again? How can Geralt want to go through the Trial again when they have already found perfection?

“Gods damn you,” Eskel hisses, jerking upright so he can catch a hand behind Geralt’s neck and pull him into a hard kiss. “You know nothing of humility.”

Geralt gasps, keening quietly into the swallow of Eskel’s mouth - sunlight. Summer on his tongue. Cherries in his mouth, boiled sugar - green grasses. Eskel stuffs his nose against Geralt’s jaw, huffing him in shallow gasps; the tip of Geralt’s cock smears wetly against him, catching ludicrously in his belly button and the folds of his stomach as they curl and roll in the too small bed.

Eskel pins him on his stomach, rocking himself between the tight clench of Geralt’s cheeks. He’s damp there, the hair slick and soft with sweat. Even his hole, Eskel finds, is molten. It’s enough to tease the tip of his cock against him, pushing bluntly against him - that sight is enough to strain him near an orgasm, the delicious idea of splitting Geralt open that easily, as if his body would sweetly gently open without any effort, as if he was made for Eskel and nothing else.

Perhaps, there are more ways to perfect him. Selfish ways.

Geralt purrs at each pass of Eskel’s cock between his ass, lying prone and eager, humping the bed without much care; he gropes back to spread one cheek wide, fingers dimpling the flesh hard, holding himself open - Eskel groans loudly, hand tight on Geralt’ shoulder. He rubs his cock against his hole, shaking with his imagination.

“Fuck, you’d let me,” he growls, having to swallow as spit runs from his mouth. He feels savage with want. Geralt only presses his face into the pillow, smelling night after night of Eskel’s sleeping head. Eskel holds his cock, putting pressure on Geralt’s dry hole - just until he hears Geralt’s breath hitch. Holds himself there as that tender and weak part of Geralt starts to part, muscle prickling with the heat of Eskel - then he retreats, passing his hands softly down Geralt’s tense back. All of Geralt’s breath leaves him; he sags limp into the bed, hands falling away from himself.

“Humbled?” Eskel asks, feeling both proud and terrible.

Geralt hums. “I’d let you do anything.”

Eskel bows his head to the nape of Geralt’s neck. Gods, he feels heavy enough to fall into a grave with those words. Sleep for a hundred years. “Geralt.”

Geralt purrs louder for him, vibrating with the warm tone of his pleasure. Eskel guides his cock back between the part of his ass. He’s just the right height to fuck him like this. Geralt keeps his neck arched, his shoulders wide. Eskel marks him, sucking bruises that will fade in a day or two. Geralt puffs a quiet “more,” shifting his weight into the bed as they mime fucking, as they ride each other, lazy and lustful and drowsy with the familiar scent of their pleasure mingling

“Would you do anything for me?” Eskel begs of him, fucking the swell of his ass, kissing his neck. He does not ask for so little; he does not ask what Geralt wants to give him.

“I’d let you do anything.”

There’s a strained difference of words.

“Would you let me take you away from here?”

“One day.” A beat. "I promise." He thinks he’ll survive. Maybe convincing himself that it’s what he wants is enough to stave off the reality that he has no choice. But if anyone thinks they can survive experiments mutations, it’s Geralt. Maybe if they both believe it hard enough, it’ll be true. That’s a kind of magic, isn’t it? That’s a kind of life force. Belief.

Eskel wants to demand _when_ but Geralt’s moving, insistent. Geralt gets a knee under himself, then another. Eskel wraps his arms around his middle, finds Geralt’s cock and makes a loop of his fingers for him to plunge wetly between.

“Where’s the oil?” Geralt manages after some time.

Anger flares bright and sudden and burns out swiftly from Eskel, too indistinct. They’ve had this fight too many times to have it right now. He’ll fight Geralt for a promise tomorrow.

They break apart, breathing hard. Eskel gropes at the small table for the oil that’s nearly gone. It’s still a new bottle, despite the dredges left inside the glass. They’ve been busy. Geralt steals it from him, biting out the cork and slicking his thighs, then his cock and balls and Eskel’s, quick passes of his hand before he flips over onto his side. Eskel collapses behind him, shuffling to curve with Geralt’s curve.

Eskel comes between Geralt’s tight thighs and Geralt comes into Eskel’s hand; it’s his bed, so they sacrifice Geralt’s shirt to the mess. Geralt rolls in his arms, kisses him, and falls asleep. Eskel lingers for a moment on the edge of sleep, Geralt both there and not; Eskel touches the crown of his head, zinging with the contact, imagining that the shock of chaotic imbuement is instead the wild mechanics of a dream. He spiderwalks his fingers across Geralt’s forehead, humming with the glow of orgasm, tapping thoughts of gold and glory into Geralt’s dreams. He patters his fingertips over Geralt’s skull like horsehooves, flight and fight and fleeing.

 _Run_ _for me._

Can’t they run?

He dreams of breathlessness.

“Eskel.”

He wakes with the kisses stealing the air from his lungs. He wakes with his cock wet in Geralt’s mouth, blood hot. He slides in and out then slides, all at once, into a fever pitch as Geralt seats himself on Eskel’s cock. It’s like hurtling down that mountain pass - all at once. Geralt’s used the last of the oil; he’s so slippery with it, Eskel’s hands slide uselessly for purchase. He hasn’t wiped it off his fingers either; they land with dark smells over Eskel’s mouth, silencing his pleasure-torn moans as Geralt rocks slowly, taking Eskel into the place of himself that he wants touched and possessed. Eskel takes him, fills him up to the brim.

The candle’s gone out; Geralt is milk-washed with moon. Each blink draws Eskel’s pupils wider, the cat narrowness of them swollen in the dark, seeing, swelling with pleasure; it’s like a very cool breeze of spring air on his eyes. Geralt’s good and green smelling, ripe with his pleasure. When Eskel touches, he thinks his fingers will punch through his skin, hot fruit ready to burst in the sun. A berry too long on the vine. He has to have him; he’s his to have.

The tender wisping curls around Geralt’s ears stick and splay along his cheekbones. His curls have a different edge to them, a crinkle from a braid he’d kept for most of the day during training - his long dark hair hangs heavy over his shoulder now, inviting Eskel’s hands. It’s organ dark in the light; Eskel gathers it, letting it pool into his hand, rubbing the strands together to hear the scratch of sound. It's improbably long, a distraction at the best of times. It's lovely and indulgent. Eskel kisses the strands, rubbing his face into them. Geralt’s mouth curls; his eyes close. When he kisses Eskel, hands braced on his chest, thighs shivering with effort as he takes his pleasure on Eskel’s cock and strangles Eskel to climax with the clench of himself, he lets his hair brush and tickle Eskel’s skin, tipping his head side to side so that the soft strands tickle across Eskel’s wired skin, sensual and delicate; he teases how Eskel thinks a woman might, must, all slow undulations, all promise. He looks too pleased with himself as he holds Geralt’s gaze; they burn there together, amber and fire. They shine in the night.

Maybe someone should humble him. But by grace, Eskel fell in love with that spark of defiant pride. He’s a fool; they both are. Summer cannot last long enough, easy with the heat of itself. Summer knows what it must be. The taste of green and cherries and stones so warm with themselves they can’t be held by anything but the shape of sunlight.

It can’t be more than an hour of this, a dream awoken from and tipped into and gone again. Geralt’s breath hitches into his kisses, over and over; he can’t catch his breath. They bite each other for silence. It’s when Geralt’s canines sink into Eskel’s shoulder that Eskel finally takes fierce hold of him and finishes off, crushing Geralt too him, Geralt hugging Eskel’s whole body with his whole body. Eskel bites and sucks Geralt’s wrist, scraping his teeth on the heel of his palm, kissing the sword-worn skin in the center.

“I could go again,” Eskel offers, after, out of breath despite having done very little aside from lay there and let Geralt enjoy himself. He must still be enjoying himself, because he’s yet to pull off of Eskel’s cock and well - the Trials gave them a strange gift between their legs.

“Go to sleep, Eskel,” Geralt commands, too heavy and too hot atop him, his slow heartbeat pounding around Eskel’s cock still inside his body. Standing at the base of the mountain, feeling the thunder claps in their feet.

His legs stay spread, ragdolled around Eskel; he’s slippery and hot around Eskel; not much has leaked from his hole; Eskel runs his finger around him where he can reach, whispering that he’ll make Geralt sing like a wine glass.

Geralt only laughs and closes his eyes. He’s not asleep but Eskel fucks him again gently, barely, moving only so he can feel Geralt move with him, the pleasure between them a lulling thing. He falls asleep buried in Geralt.

Kissed into him. “Eskel.”

“Eskel.”

He’s never heard his name from Geralt’s mouth so much. It tickles in his ear. He opens his eyes into the night only to be held blind by Geralt’s hand across his face. Geralt breathes hard once, and kisses him, shushing Eskel into slumbing silence. Eskel slides from a slip of tongue to sleep as easily as he has all summer, sighing on the safety of a promise.

**Author's Note:**

> title from glass animals new song: it's all so incredibly loud: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hyx0YftuyDU


End file.
